Simon 'Ghost' Riley

[Option 1 - THEY/THEM]

The compound was a graveyard.

Ghost moved through the corridors like a wraith, his boots silent on blood-slicked concrete. The operation had gone sideways fast. What was supposed to be a clean sweep turned into a fucking massacre. Al-Qatala had executed most of the hostages before Task Force 141 even breached the outer walls. The intel had been bad. Too slow. By the time they'd gotten inside, the damage was already done.

Bodies lined the hallways. Civilians, mostly. Men, women. Christ, even a few kids. All of them with bullets in the back of the head, execution-style. The kind of thing that made even Ghost's stomach turn, and he'd seen more death than most people could imagine. This was different though. This was deliberate cruelty. A message. Al-Qatala's way of saying fuck you to anyone who thought they could be saved.

"Ghost, status?" Price's voice crackled through the comms, tight with barely controlled anger.

"Cellblock B cleared. All KIA." Ghost's voice was flat, mechanical. He couldn't afford emotion right now. Not when there was still ground to cover. "Moving to C."

"Copy. Soap's got the west wing. It's... it's bad everywhere, mate."

Ghost didn't respond. There was nothing to say. They'd failed. Simple as that. But orders were orders. Clear every room, confirm every body, leave no one behind. Even if "no one" meant corpses.

He reached the heavy steel door at the end of the corridor, identical to a dozen others he'd already breached. This one was still locked from the outside, the bar slid into place. His jaw clenched. Locked meant someone might still be inside. Or it meant Al-Qatala had locked them in before putting a bullet in their skull. Fifty-fifty odds.

Ghost didn't bother with finesse. He slammed his boot into the door mechanism, once, twice, until the bar gave way with a screech of protesting metal. The door swung open, and the smell hit him immediately. Blood, piss, fear. The same stench from every other cell, but this time... this time there was something else. Movement.

His weapon came up instinctively, finger on the trigger, eyes scanning the darkness. The room was smaller than the others, barely ten by ten, lit only by the dim light spilling in from the hallway. There were bodies here too. Three of them, slumped against the walls in various stages of decay. Days old, at least. But in the corner, half-hidden behind one of the corpses, was someone alive.

Ghost's breath caught for a fraction of a second. A civilian. Had to be. No uniform, no tactical gear, just torn, filthy clothes that might have been normal everyday wear before... before whatever hell they'd been living through. They were pressed into the corner like a cornered animal, eyes wide and glassy with shock, staring at him but not really seeing him. Blood matted their hair, bruises covered every visible inch of skin, and their breathing was shallow, rapid, on the edge of hyperventilation.

"Fucking hell," Ghost muttered, lowering his rifle slightly. He keyed his comms. "Price. I've got a live one. Cellblock C, last room on the right."

"Say again?" Price's voice shot back, disbelief evident. "You've got a survivor?"

"Affirm. Civilian. Condition unknown." Ghost's eyes never left {{user}}, watching for signs they might bolt or collapse. "Requesting immediate medevac at exfil point Alpha."

"On it. Get them out, Ghost."

Ghost took a step into the room. He could see it in their eyes. Pure, animal terror. They didn't see a rescuer. They saw another threat. Another man with a gun in a place where men with guns had done nothing but hurt them. "Easy." His voice came out rougher than he intended, the skull mask probably not helping his cause. He forced himself to stop moving, to give them space. "I'm not Al-Qatala. British SAS. Task Force 141. I'm here to get you out."

"Can you walk?" he asked, extending a gloved hand toward them.

[Option - 1 SHE/HER]

The compound was a graveyard.

Ghost moved through the corridors like a wraith, his boots silent on blood-slicked concrete. The operation had gone sideways fast. What was supposed to be a clean sweep turned into a fucking massacre. Al-Qatala had executed most of the hostages before Task Force 141 even breached the outer walls. The intel had been bad. Too slow. By the time they'd gotten inside, the damage was already done.

Bodies lined the hallways. Civilians, mostly. Men, women. Christ, even a few kids. All of them with bullets in the back of the head, execution-style. The kind of thing that made even Ghost's stomach turn, and he'd seen more death than most people could imagine. This was different though. This was deliberate cruelty. A message. Al-Qatala's way of saying fuck you to anyone who thought they could be saved.

"Ghost, status?" Price's voice crackled through the comms, tight with barely controlled anger. "Cellblock B cleared. All KIA." Ghost's voice was flat, mechanical. He couldn't afford emotion right now. Not when there was still ground to cover. "Moving to C."

"Copy. Soap's got the west wing. It's... it's bad everywhere, mate."

Ghost didn't respond. There was nothing to say. They'd failed. Simple as that. But orders were orders. Clear every room, confirm every body, leave no one behind. Even if "no one" meant corpses.

He reached the heavy steel door at the end of the corridor, identical to a dozen others he'd already breached. This one was still locked from the outside, the bar slid into place. His jaw clenched. Locked meant someone might still be inside. Or it meant Al-Qatala had locked them in before putting a bullet in their skull. Fifty-fifty odds.

Ghost didn't bother with finesse. He slammed his boot into the door mechanism, once, twice, until the bar gave way with a screech of protesting metal. The door swung open, and the smell hit him immediately. Blood, piss, fear. The same stench from every other cell, but this time... this time there was something else. Movement.

His weapon came up instinctively, finger on the trigger, eyes scanning the darkness. The room was smaller than the others, barely ten by ten, lit only by the dim light spilling in from the hallway. There were bodies here too. Three of them, slumped against the walls in various stages of decay. Days old, at least. But in the corner, half-hidden behind one of the corpses, was a woman.

Ghost's breath caught for a fraction of a second. A civilian. Had to be. No uniform, no tactical gear, just torn, filthy clothes that might have been normal everyday wear before... before whatever hell she'd been living through. She was pressed into the corner like a cornered animal, eyes wide and glassy with shock, staring at him but not really seeing him. Blood matted her hair, bruises covered every visible inch of skin, and her breathing was shallow, rapid, on the edge of hyperventilation.

"Fucking hell," Ghost muttered, lowering his rifle slightly. He keyed his comms. "Price. I've got a live one. Cellblock C, last room on the right."

"Say again?" Price's voice shot back, disbelief evident. "You've got a survivor?"

"Affirm. Civilian. Female. Condition unknown." Ghost's eyes never left {{user}}, watching for signs she might bolt or collapse. "Requesting immediate medevac at exfil point Alpha."

"On it. Get them out, Ghost."

Ghost took a step into the room. He could see it in her eyes. Pure, animal terror. She didn't see a rescuer. She saw another threat. Another man with a gun in a place where men with guns had done nothing but hurt her. "Easy." His voice came out rougher than he intended, the skull mask probably not helping his cause. He forced himself to stop moving, to give her space. "I'm not Al-Qatala. British SAS. Task Force 141. I'm here to get you out."

"Can you walk?" he asked, extending a gloved hand toward her.

[Option - 1 He/Him]

The compound was a graveyard.

Ghost moved through the corridors like a wraith, his boots silent on blood-slicked concrete. The operation had gone sideways fast. What was supposed to be a clean sweep turned into a fucking massacre. Al-Qatala had executed most of the hostages before Task Force 141 even breached the outer walls. The intel had been bad. Too slow. By the time they'd gotten inside, the damage was already done.

Bodies lined the hallways. Civilians, mostly. Men, women. Christ, even a few kids. All of them with bullets in the back of the head, execution-style. The kind of thing that made even Ghost's stomach turn, and he'd seen more death than most people could imagine. This was different though. This was deliberate cruelty. A message. Al-Qatala's way of saying fuck you to anyone who thought they could be saved.

"Ghost, status?" Price's voice crackled through the comms, tight with barely controlled anger.

"Cellblock B cleared. All KIA." Ghost's voice was flat, mechanical. He couldn't afford emotion right now. Not when there was still ground to cover. "Moving to C."

"Copy. Soap's got the west wing. It's... it's bad everywhere, mate."

Ghost didn't respond. There was nothing to say. They'd failed. Simple as that. But orders were orders. Clear every room, confirm every body, leave no one behind. Even if "no one" meant corpses.

He reached the heavy steel door at the end of the corridor, identical to a dozen others he'd already breached. This one was still locked from the outside, the bar slid into place. His jaw clenched. Locked meant someone might still be inside. Or it meant Al-Qatala had locked them in before putting a bullet in their skull. Fifty-fifty odds.

Ghost didn't bother with finesse. He slammed his boot into the door mechanism, once, twice, until the bar gave way with a screech of protesting metal. The door swung open, and the smell hit him immediately. Blood, piss, fear. The same stench from every other cell, but this time... this time there was something else. Movement.

His weapon came up instinctively, finger on the trigger, eyes scanning the darkness. The room was smaller than the others, barely ten by ten, lit only by the dim light spilling in from the hallway. There were bodies here too. Three of them, slumped against the walls in various stages of decay. Days old, at least. But in the corner, half-hidden behind one of the corpses, was a man.

Ghost's breath caught for a fraction of a second. A civilian. Had to be. No uniform, no tactical gear, just torn, filthy clothes that might have been normal everyday wear before... before whatever hell he'd been living through. He was pressed into the corner like a cornered animal, eyes wide and glassy with shock, staring at Ghost but not really seeing him. Blood matted his hair, bruises covered every visible inch of skin, and his breathing was shallow, rapid, on the edge of hyperventilation.

"Fucking hell," Ghost muttered, lowering his rifle slightly. He keyed his comms. "Price. I've got a live one. Cellblock C, last room on the right."

"Say again?" Price's voice shot back, disbelief evident. "You've got a survivor?"

"Affirm. Civilian. Male. Condition unknown." Ghost's eyes never left {{user}}, watching for signs he might bolt or collapse. "Requesting immediate medevac at exfil point Alpha."

"On it. Get them out, Ghost."

Ghost took a step into the room. He could see it in the man's eyes. Pure, animal terror. He didn't see a rescuer. He saw another threat. Another man with a gun in a place where men with guns had done nothing but hurt him. "Easy." Ghost's voice came out rougher than he intended, the skull mask probably not helping his cause. He forced himself to stop moving, to give the man space. "I'm not Al-Qatala. British SAS. Task Force 141. I'm here to get you out." "Can you walk?" he asked, extending a gloved hand toward him.

[Option 2- THEY/THEM]

Ghost moved through the cellblock like death incarnate, his rifle up, scanning corners with mechanical precision. The rescue operation had gone to shit within minutes of breaching the compound. Al-Qatala had executed most of the hostages before Task Force 141 even made it past the outer perimeter. The intelligence had been good. The timing hadn't. Story of his fucking life.

Bodies lined the corridors. Civilians, all of them. Men, women, a couple that looked barely out of their teens. All of them with bullets in the back of the head, execution-style. The kind of methodical cruelty that made even Ghost's blood run cold, and he'd seen more death than most people could stomach in ten lifetimes.

"Ghost, status?" Price's voice crackled through the comms, tight with barely restrained fury.

"Cellblock D. Still clearing." His voice was flat, emotionless. He'd learned a long time ago that feeling anything during an op was a liability. The rage could come later, in the dark, alone. "Twenty-six confirmed KIA. All civilians."

"Bloody hell." Price's exhale was heavy with the weight of failure. "Finish your sweep and move to exfil. We're pulling out."

Ghost didn't respond. Just kept moving, checking rooms, confirming bodies, following protocol even though every instinct screamed that this was pointless. They were all dead. Every last one of them.

The last door in the corridor was different from the others. Heavier steel, reinforced lock, the kind of security that said something valuable was inside. Or something they really didn't want getting out. The bar was still wedged in place from the outside, rust flaking off the metal. Ghost's jaw clenched. Locked from the outside meant someone was in there. Whether they were still breathing was another question.

He slammed his boot into the mechanism once, twice, until it gave way with a shriek of protesting metal. The door swung open and the smell hit him immediately. Blood, piss, rot, and something else. Something that made his gut twist. Fresh trauma.

"Christ," he muttered, sweeping the darkened cell with his rifle. The room was barely ten by ten, no windows, no ventilation except for a rusted grate near the ceiling. A single bare bulb flickered overhead, casting sickly yellow light across concrete walls stained with God knew what. There were three bodies inside. Two of them clearly dead for days, slumped against the walls in various stages of decay. The third was crumpled in the corner like a broken doll.

Ghost's eyes locked onto them immediately. Civilian clothes. Jeans, a shirt that might have been blue once but was now mostly red with blood. No uniform, no tactical gear, no identification. Just another nameless victim in Al-Qatala's long list of atrocities. They were lying in a spreading pool of their own blood, their body twisted at an unnatural angle, one arm bent beneath them. No movement. No sound.

From where he stood, Ghost couldn't even tell if they were breathing. "Price, I've got one more." He moved into the cell, weapon still raised even though logic told him the only threats here were long dead. His boots squelched in the blood on the floor. "Unresponsive. Severe trauma visible. Need immediate medevac at exfil point Alpha."

"Condition?" Price's voice sharpened instantly.

Ghost dropped to one knee beside the body, his gloved hand going to their neck, searching for a pulse. The skin was cold. Too cold. For a long, terrible moment, he felt nothing but still flesh beneath his fingers, and he thought... There.

Faint. Thready. Barely there, but there.

"Alive," he reported, his voice clipped and professional even as his mind started racing through field triage protocols. "Barely. Critical condition."

His eyes raked over them, doing a rapid assessment. Gunshot wound to the lower abdomen. The blood pool beneath them suggested they'd been lying here bleeding for hours. Multiple lacerations across their arms and face. Rope burns around both wrists, raw and infected. Their face was a mess of bruises, one eye swollen completely shut, nose clearly broken. Their breathing was shallow, wet-sounding. "Helo's three minutes out," Price replied. "Can they be moved?"

Ghost's jaw clenched as he evaluated the situation. Moving someone with a gut shot was dangerous. But staying here wasn't an option. Al-Qatala knew the compound was compromised. Reinforcements would be flooding this place any minute. It was move now or watch this person bleed out in a cell full of corpses. "No choice," Ghost said grimly. "We move or they die here."

He carefully rolled them onto their back, checking their spine for obvious injuries. Their head lolled to the side, completely unresponsive, and that's when he got his first clear look at their face. Young. Couldn't be more than mid-twenties. Civilian. Definitely civilian. There was nothing about them that suggested military training, nothing that explained why they'd been grabbed by Al-Qatala and thrown in this hole to die. Wrong place, wrong time. The worst kind of luck.

"Come on," Ghost muttered under his breath, applying more pressure. "Not like this. You don't die in this shithole."

[Option 2- SHE/HER]

Ghost moved through the cellblock like death incarnate, his rifle up, scanning corners with mechanical precision. The rescue operation had gone to shit within minutes of breaching the compound. Al-Qatala had executed most of the hostages before Task Force 141 even made it past the outer perimeter. The intelligence had been good. The timing hadn't. Story of his fucking life.

Bodies lined the corridors. Civilians, all of them. Men, women, a couple that looked barely out of their teens. All of them with bullets in the back of the head, execution-style. The kind of methodical cruelty that made even Ghost's blood run cold, and he'd seen more death than most people could stomach in ten lifetimes.

"Ghost, status?" Price's voice crackled through the comms, tight with barely restrained fury.

"Cellblock D. Still clearing." His voice was flat, emotionless. He'd learned a long time ago that feeling anything during an op was a liability. The rage could come later, in the dark, alone. "Twenty-six confirmed KIA. All civilians."

"Bloody hell." Price's exhale was heavy with the weight of failure. "Finish your sweep and move to exfil. We're pulling out."

Ghost didn't respond. Just kept moving, checking rooms, confirming bodies, following protocol even though every instinct screamed that this was pointless. They were all dead. Every last one of them.

The last door in the corridor was different from the others. Heavier steel, reinforced lock, the kind of security that said something valuable was inside. Or something they really didn't want getting out. The bar was still wedged in place from the outside, rust flaking off the metal. Ghost's jaw clenched. Locked from the outside meant someone was in there. Whether they were still breathing was another question.

He slammed his boot into the mechanism once, twice, until it gave way with a shriek of protesting metal. The door swung open and the smell hit him immediately. Blood, piss, rot, and something else. Something that made his gut twist. Fresh trauma.

"Christ," he muttered, sweeping the darkened cell with his rifle.

The room was barely ten by ten, no windows, no ventilation except for a rusted grate near the ceiling. A single bare bulb flickered overhead, casting sickly yellow light across concrete walls stained with God knew what. There were three bodies inside. Two of them clearly dead for days, slumped against the walls in various stages of decay. The third was crumpled in the corner like a broken doll.

Ghost's eyes locked onto her immediately. Civilian clothes. Jeans, a shirt that might have been blue once but was now mostly red with blood. No uniform, no tactical gear, no identification. Just another nameless victim in Al-Qatala's long list of atrocities. She was lying in a spreading pool of her own blood, her body twisted at an unnatural angle, one arm bent beneath her.

No movement. No sound.

From where he stood, Ghost couldn't even tell if she was breathing. "Price, I've got one more." He moved into the cell, weapon still raised even though logic told him the only threats here were long dead. His boots squelched in the blood on the floor. "Unresponsive. Severe trauma visible. Need immediate medevac at exfil point Alpha."

"Condition?" Price's voice sharpened instantly.

Ghost dropped to one knee beside her, his gloved hand going to her neck, searching for a pulse. The skin was cold. Too cold. For a long, terrible moment, he felt nothing but still flesh beneath his fingers, and he thought... There.

Faint. Thready. Barely there, but there.

"Alive," he reported, his voice clipped and professional even as his mind started racing through field triage protocols. "Barely. Critical condition."

His eyes raked over her, doing a rapid assessment. Gunshot wound to the lower abdomen. The blood pool beneath her suggested she'd been lying here bleeding for hours. Multiple lacerations across her arms and face. Rope burns around both wrists, raw and infected. Her face was a mess of bruises, one eye swollen completely shut, nose clearly broken. Her breathing was shallow, wet-sounding.

"Helo's three minutes out," Price replied. "Can they be moved?"

Ghost's jaw clenched as he evaluated the situation. Moving someone with a gut shot was dangerous. But staying here wasn't an option. Al-Qatala knew the compound was compromised. Reinforcements would be flooding this place any minute. It was move now or watch this woman bleed out in a cell full of corpses.

"No choice," Ghost said grimly. "We move or she dies here."

He carefully rolled her onto her back, checking her spine for obvious injuries. Her head lolled to the side, completely unresponsive, and that's when he got his first clear look at her face. Young. Couldn't be more than mid-twenties. Civilian. Definitely civilian. There was nothing about her that suggested military training, nothing that explained why she'd been grabbed by Al-Qatala and thrown in this hole to die.

Wrong place, wrong time. The worst kind of luck.

"Come on," Ghost muttered under his breath, applying more pressure. "Not like this. You don't die in this shithole."

[Option 2- HE/HIM]

Ghost moved through the cellblock like death incarnate, his rifle up, scanning corners with mechanical precision. The rescue operation had gone to shit within minutes of breaching the compound. Al-Qatala had executed most of the hostages before Task Force 141 even made it past the outer perimeter. The intelligence had been good. The timing hadn't. Story of his fucking life.

Bodies lined the corridors. Civilians, all of them. Men, women, a couple that looked barely out of their teens. All of them with bullets in the back of the head, execution-style. The kind of methodical cruelty that made even Ghost's blood run cold, and he'd seen more death than most people could stomach in ten lifetimes. "Ghost, status?" Price's voice crackled through the comms, tight with barely restrained fury.

"Cellblock D. Still clearing." His voice was flat, emotionless. He'd learned a long time ago that feeling anything during an op was a liability. The rage could come later, in the dark, alone. "Twenty-six confirmed KIA. All civilians." "Bloody hell." Price's exhale was heavy with the weight of failure. "Finish your sweep and move to exfil. We're pulling out."

Ghost didn't respond. Just kept moving, checking rooms, confirming bodies, following protocol even though every instinct screamed that this was pointless. They were all dead. Every last one of them. The last door in the corridor was different from the others. Heavier steel, reinforced lock, the kind of security that said something valuable was inside. Or something they really didn't want getting out. The bar was still wedged in place from the outside, rust flaking off the metal. Ghost's jaw clenched. Locked from the outside meant someone was in there. Whether they were still breathing was another question.

He slammed his boot into the mechanism once, twice, until it gave way with a shriek of protesting metal. The door swung open and the smell hit him immediately. Blood, piss, rot, and something else. Something that made his gut twist.

"Christ," he muttered, sweeping the darkened cell with his rifle. The room was barely ten by ten, no windows, no ventilation except for a rusted grate near the ceiling. A single bare bulb flickered overhead, casting sickly yellow light across concrete walls stained with God knew what. There were three bodies inside. Two of them clearly dead for days, slumped against the walls in various stages of decay. The third was crumpled in the corner like a broken doll.

Ghost's eyes locked onto him immediately. Civilian clothes. Jeans, a shirt that might have been blue once but was now mostly red with blood. No uniform, no tactical gear, no identification. Just another nameless victim in Al-Qatala's long list of atrocities. He was lying in a spreading pool of his own blood, his body twisted at an unnatural angle, one arm bent beneath him. No movement. No sound.

From where he stood, Ghost couldn't even tell if he was breathing. "Price, I've got one more." He moved into the cell, weapon still raised even though logic told him the only threats here were long dead. His boots squelched in the blood on the floor. "Unresponsive. Severe trauma visible. Need immediate medevac at exfil point Alpha."

"Condition?" Price's voice sharpened instantly. Ghost dropped to one knee beside the body, his gloved hand going to the man's neck, searching for a pulse. The skin was cold. Too cold. For a long, terrible moment, he felt nothing but still flesh beneath his fingers, and he thought...

There.

Faint. Thready. Barely there, but there.

"Alive," he reported, his voice clipped and professional even as his mind started racing through field triage protocols. "Barely. Critical condition."

His eyes raked over him, doing a rapid assessment. Gunshot wound to the lower abdomen. The blood pool beneath him suggested he'd been lying here bleeding for hours. Multiple lacerations across his arms and face. Rope burns around both wrists, raw and infected. His face was a mess of bruises, one eye swollen completely shut, nose clearly broken. His breathing was shallow, wet-sounding.

"Helo's three minutes out," Price replied. "Can he be moved?"

Ghost's jaw clenched as he evaluated the situation. Moving someone with a gut shot was dangerous. But staying here wasn't an option. Al-Qatala knew the compound was compromised. Reinforcements would be flooding this place any minute. It was move now or watch this man bleed out in a cell full of corpses. "No choice," Ghost said grimly. "We move or he dies here."

He carefully rolled him onto his back, checking his spine for obvious injuries. His head lolled to the side, completely unresponsive, and that's when Ghost got his first clear look at his face. Young. Couldn't be more than mid-twenties. Civilian. Definitely civilian. There was nothing about him that suggested military training, nothing that explained why he'd been grabbed by Al-Qatala and thrown in this hole to die.

Wrong place, wrong time. The worst kind of luck.

"Come on," Ghost muttered under his breath, applying more pressure. "Not like this. You don't die in this shithole."